That lawyer sure could pack away the food. I hadn’t finished my iced tea but he was on his second piece of Thelma’s excellent pie topped with two scoops of cinnamon ice cream. “First we’ll try to get a dismissal on the basis that there’s not enough evidence. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try to discredit the evidence. I hope by the time this goes to court, if it does, we’ll have an alternate story to tell. My investigators are busy collecting information. I have experts looking everything over for us.”
“What about phone calls?” I asked. “Brenda had to go somewhere after the shooting. She must have called someone. Was it her mother? Carla Kloss was at home alone when the State troopers came to tell her about finding Brenda. Right?”
“Carla says she didn’t see her daughter after the altercation at the slough. I plan to question that. I have subpoenaed phone records for the Kloss parents, and Brenda’s records as well. Of course, the phone company is dragging their feet. As per usual.” Schnabel mixed his ice cream with his pie.
“Were Brenda’s injuries consistent with those caused by a 9 mm Beretta?” I wondered.
“What do you mean?” Louis turned to me, questioningly.
“As I understand it, different bullets cause specific sorts of damage. I’m wondering if Brenda’s injuries match those that would have been caused by a 9 mm Beretta. The newspapers reported that several of the crime labs in Illinois have been taken to task for all sorts of goof-ups. I realize this might be obvious, but I thought it worth asking,” I said.
A slow grin spread across Schnabel’s face. “I wondered the same. I’m not sure how carefully the autopsy results were compared to the bullet typing. Here in Illinois, our coroners are elected officials.”
“Right,” I said. “That means they don’t have to have any formal training, do they?”
“Correct,” Schnabel said. “However, they are expected to apply for the training course within 30 days of assuming office. After they apply, they have six months to complete said training. As per your question, I have called in an expert to review the coroner’s findings. I suspect the bullet type and the wound will not be a match.”
“In other words, if you hadn’t done something, we might be relying on an elected official with no formal training at all!” Ginny said with a huff. “And even if he or she had gone through that course, goodness knows how extensive that training really is!”
“That’s just jim-dandy, isn’t it?” agreed Louis. “Gives me a whole lot of confidence in the system.”
“Then you’ll feel even worse when I tell you that in this case, they rushed to match the ballistics to Chad’s gun because of an anonymous call to the state police.” Schnabel’s tone was as serious as his expression.
“You have to be kidding,” Ginny said. “So who made that call?”
“We don’t know,” said Schnabel. “It was traced to a phone booth at a convenience store along Highway 55.”
I toyed with the last chunk of apple on my plate. “Why would someone make that call? Think about it. The person making the call had to be the killer.”
I took Detweiler’s hand. “He or she must have wanted to incriminate you. And the killer wanted you fingered right away. Otherwise, how long would it have taken for the authorities to check those particular casings against your service revolver? The one you’d quit using on a daily basis?”
“They always look at the husband or wife or any family member, but considering this gun had been retired, it might have taken a while for them to point the finger at Chad,” said Schnabel.
“Why would anyone have wanted to incriminate Chad so quickly?” Thelma finally sat down to a cold cup of coffee.
“I have done work for nonprofits, helping with their fundraising and public relations,” Ginny said. “One of them brought in an expert who lectured us on positioning our services. She said that the group or individual who puts the story out there first usually wins the day. Her point was that the first rendition has the most sticking power. We don’t always hear the correction or the rebuttal. And if we do, it might not matter because we’ve already framed the debate.”
“That’s true in the courtroom as well.” Schnabel pushed his plate away. “That’s the purpose of opening arguments, to posit your story, to frame all the evidence in light of your supposition.”
“So, you’re saying that someone, possibly the killer, wanted to create a narrative that cast Chad as the killer. And that this person was sharp enough to work the system. That means that the killer was a person who knew how the coroner’s office worked, how to encourage the state police, and also knew that Chad had recently changed out his gun. Plus, this particular person had to have access to Chad’s spent casings. So, Brenda’s murderer has to be someone fairly close to you,” I said as I took Detweiler’s hand and looked into those gorgeous green eyes. “Because the person who set you up must have known that you kept your retired gun. Otherwise this whole scheme wouldn’t have worked.”
sixty-one
Patty Detweiler volunteered to drive me back to my car. I reckoned her offer was an olive branch, so I eagerly snatched it up.
“Let me tell Mom goodbye,” she said. We both knew this was a complete ruse designed to give her brother and me privacy. Tucking my arm under his, Detweiler walked me to his sister’s car. “You liked my roses?”
I kissed him. “Yes. They are lovely. I’m enjoying them.”
“I want to tell you again how sorry I am. You were right; I should have cut Brenda loose a long time ago.” He threaded his fingers through mine, but kept his gaze on the ground. “I don’t know why I feel so sad. I wasn’t in love with her anymore. I’d almost come to hate her for all the trouble she was causing.”
“You feel sad because you remember the person you once loved. You know who she could have been. And because you’re a good person.” I hugged him, catching a whiff of the Safeguard soap he always used and a hint of cologne. I liked the fact he didn’t douse himself like some men did.
Stepping away to study me, he asked, “You’re not mad at me any more for being a bonehead?”
I laughed. “That’s Detective Bonehead, right?”
To my great joy, he smiled. “D.B.”
I laughed again. “I’m not mad. You did your best. We’ll talk about our wedding later, okay?”
“And Anya? Does she hate me? Has she said anything? Is she okay?”
“You mean besides spending all day sticking pins into a cloth doll dressed in a police uniform?”
“Crud,” he groaned, and a flutter in my belly reminded me how much I needed this man. “That bad?”
“She has other things on her mind,” I answered honestly.
“What? Is she worried about the baby?”
“No, she’s happy about that. It’s a problem between her and Nicci Moore. Girl stuff.” I waved the concern away.
“Tell her I love her and that as soon as I’m out of this pickle, we’re going fishing. I had promised her a day of it, and I intend to keep that promise real soon.”
This pickle. Well, that was one way to describe being a suspect in your wife’s murder.
He hesitated. “Just so you know, I was being truthful. I wanted to ask her to be my daughter, but I wanted to talk with you first, and I needed to finish up the divorce proceedings. But I hope she’ll take me up on the offer. I know she sets great store about being a Lowenstein, but maybe we can come to some sort of a compromise.”
“What kind of compromise?”
“Patty suggested a hyphenated last name. Pretty smart, huh?”
“That’s certainly an option. We’ll have to run it by Anya. Speaking of Patty, your sister confuses me. Is it safe for me to get in the car with her? Or is she going to take the loss of her friend out on me?” Glancing at Patty telling her mother goodbye, I knew that Detweiler and I only had a few more seconds to talk freely.
“Here’s the good news: Patty hates firearms. If she’s angry with you, she’s more likely to attack you with a glue gun than a pistol. The two of you are more alike than you know. Both of you love crafts. Both are loyal to a fault. Trusting. Sensitive.” Then he grinned. “And boy, do you two have a temper on you!”
sixty-two
Detweiler hadn’t warned me that Patty was a speed demon behind the wheel. My seat belt snapped tight twice before we rumbled out of the Detweiler driveway, leaving me gasping for air. Patty was careful enough, looking both ways before pulling out on an empty stretch of county road, but her lead foot sent me bouncing this way and that over the poorly maintained pavement.
“I don’t hate you.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Given time, I might even come to like you.”
“Or not.”
“Or not.” She laughed. “At least you don’t take yourself too seriously.”
“How could I? I’m the mother of a pre-teen. I get potshots taken at me on a regular basis. That reminds me, I heard that your brother and your father used to go to a shooting range and practice every Sunday. Where is it?”
“Down the road from my parents’ house. Maybe five miles to the north.”
We raced into an intersection obscured by rows of corn. She brought the car skidding to a stop and pointed a finger to the left. “Here’s the crossroad. Harbinger Lane. The GM range is at the intersection of that and County Road 1200. Colby Nesbit added it to his farm to bring in extra cash. My house is ten miles northeast of here.”
She sped away from the four-way stop, leaving a cloud of dust behind us.
“You and Brenda must have been good friends.”
“You try spending two hours a day on a bus with someone. Gives you a lot of time to talk. Of course, things changed after we graduated, but we were still neighbors, sort of, so we stayed close. I think she had a crush on Chad for years.”
We came to another crossroads. Patty pointed over her left shoulder. “The Kloss farm is six miles that way. It’s a deep piece of land. The back of it runs up against County Road 1400, but the house is actually on County Road 1300. The place has been in their family two generations. Not as long as we’ve had our farm, but still …”
By my calculations, Brenda had been killed thirty miles from here, twenty miles past Patty and Paul’s house, on the way to the city of Springfield, Illinois. I asked Patty if she knew anyone who lived along that stretch of highway.
“No. I know why you’re asking. I’ve even gone through our yearbook and looked up our classmates. Most of them stayed close to home. Even though the employment situation here is pretty dismal.”
“We gravitate to what is familiar, even when economic times are tough,” I said.
“A few of our classmates have dabbled in growing pot. As you might imagine, if you know much about agriculture, growing hemp is easy enough to do. Especially if you have a greenhouse. A lot of farmers put in greenhouses to grow specialty crops like Beefsteak tomatoes, Big Girl and Better Girl varieties to sell at roadside markets. Of course, back in 1943, the government actually distributed hemp seed to Illinois farmers to meet wartime demands for rope, twine, and so on. You still see it growing beside the road. Today’s plants are different, with a higher concentration of TCH in the buds, so it doesn’t take a lot of marijuana to turn a good profit.”
I channeled Sheila for a second and had to stop myself before her voice came out of my mouth, or I would have said, “Really?”
Instead, I tried to sound noncommittal. “Uh, that’s interesting. You think it has anything to do with Brenda’s death?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s possible. I mean, maybe someone local was supplying her.”
“But marijuana is different from prescription drugs.”
Patty sighed. “I know. I’m just trying to make sense of it, you know? Find a connection somewhere, somehow to help Chad! Besides she could have been trading prescription drugs for dope. It happens. Dope is easier to sell.”
She sounded desperate. I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. We have to trust that it will. Schnabel is the best there is. Chad didn’t do this, and we’ll all stand by him.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m just telling you something I was thinking about. I mean, maybe Brenda knew about a marijuana operation, and that caught up with her. She could have threatened to rat someone out.”
“Anyone you know?”
“No!” she said too quickly. A slow blush stained her face. Was it possible that Patty and Paul grew dope for Brenda to sell and harvested a peck full of trouble? Was this the “investment” that went bad? Paul had been out of work for a year or so by my calculations. Jobs were hard to replace in rural communities. Houses tough to sell.
Could it be that Patty Kressig knew a whole lot more about the circumstances surrounding Brenda Detweiler’s death than she let on?
sixty-three
On my drive back to St. Louis, I talked with Robbie Holmes. Fortunately, there’s a lot of flat highway between Illinois and Missouri, so being on the cell phone wasn’t endangering other drivers. A couple of times, I resorted to what we call “knee driving,” where you steer the car with your kneecaps so both hands are free. Not recommended, but hey, long flat stretches of road can be tiresome! Robbie asked a few questions about the funeral and what I’d observed. He listened carefully to all I’d seen and heard. “Sounds like a hot mess. I think you’re right that Patty might know something. The question is what? I sure hope the case doesn’t go to court.”
My heart started racing with fear as Robbie continued, “You never know with a jury. Ever. If one person in the jury box has a problem with cops, Chad could be sentenced even if the evidence is weak. It’s always a crap shoot.”
After that depressing thought, I wanted to change the subject. “When’s Sheila coming home?”
“I’m picking her up tonight after work. Want to come over?”
“I have a crop.”
“What’s a crop? I’ve heard you talk about them.”
“Basically a scrapbook party. Think of a quilting bee with paper. And I’m in charge. I couldn’t get to her house until eleven.”
“She should be fast asleep by then. How about if you stop by in the morning?”
sixty-four
Margit’s food put our croppers in a super mood, and my projects were well-received, especially the one teaching croppers new ways to use gesso on Zentangle® tiles.
Yifat Glassman Cestare came up to me after the demonstrations and gave me a hug. “Those of us who know you and Detweiler know he’s innocent. He couldn’t have had anything to do with his wife’s death. We think the world of you, Kiki. Always have. Always will. Don’t let the turkeys get you down.” Her kind words meant a lot to me, and her hazel eyes glowed with sincerity as she spoke.
A half an hour before we ended the event, my cell phone rang. I ignored it, but the store phone rang immediately afterward, a sure sign of a problem. A peek at the clock told me that Sheila might be home by now. Could it be her? But then, Robbie would be by her side.
Reluctantly, I picked up.
“Mom? I need you. Come quickly. It’s Nicci. Something’s wrong.”
“Where’s Jennifer?” I tugged at the strings of the apron I wore during crops. The ties came loose and I wiggled it off.
“She’s at a meeting. Something to do with business.”
“And Stevie?” I asked as I fumbled with my purse. Since he was older, he could help as I raced to the scene.
“He’s with Nicci. Mom? Are you coming or what?”
“I’m on my way. Do you need an ambulance?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”
“Call nine-one-one. If you aren’t sure, it’s better to be safe.”
She hung up.
si
xty-five
Clancy looked up from helping a cropper with a project, took one glance at my face, and made a beeline to my side. “Anya?”
“An emergency.” I had my car keys in hand.
“I’ll take Gracie to your house and wait there.”
“This might take a while.”
“That’s fine. I can sleep on the sofa. You might want the company when you get back. You’ve had a rough couple of days.”
Without a backward glance or a goodbye to the troops, I raced out the door. My hands shook so much I had trouble getting the key into the ignition, but I managed. Then I outdid Evel Knievel in my daredevil attempt to cross 40 into the fancy Ladue neighborhood where the Moores lived. Fortunately, their house wasn’t more than a couple of miles from the store.
I jumped the curb in front of the perfectly manicured Moore house. Didn’t care. As long as I didn’t blow out the tire, I was fine. Turned the car off and sprinted to the front door. Once there, I pounded on it. Anya appeared, paler than a bedsheet soaked in Clorox. “Upstairs. In the bathroom.”
Anya and I bounded up the stairs, faster than I would have ever dreamed possible. She pointed to an open door and I stepped in to see Nicci on the white tile floor, her inner thighs covered in blood. Stevie sat under her, propping her up, squished between the toilet and the bathtub. My first thought was that the girl had miscarried or hemorrhaged. But the blood started three inches or so down from the top of her thighs. She was wearing a loose tee-shirt and knit gym shorts with a drawstring waist. The humidity in the room told me that the shower must have been running recently. Nicci’s hair was wet. Had she slipped, fallen and hurt herself ?
Where was all this blood coming from?
“You called nine-one-one?”
“Y-y-yes,” Anya stuttered.
“I think she’s passed out,” said Stevie as he cradled his sister’s torso.
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